


No Reason for Silence

by tothewillofthepeople



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Music, Angst, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/tothewillofthepeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are moments around Enjolras which are so heartbreakingly beautiful that Grantaire does not know how to cope. It is the only time he wishes he truly understood how to set notes to paper, solely so that he could capture the wretched, divine music that Enjolras’s very presence wrings from him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Canon-era Grantaire has music playing constantly in his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Reason for Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Barricade Day!
> 
> Title from Hugo himself: "Not being heard is no reason for silence."

Grantaire supposes the first notes began the moment he was born.

He has no memory of it, obviously, but he can imagine that there was a slow, stuttering piano playing softly in his ear when he was an infant. He was an almost silent child, perpetually calm, and he knows personally that the sweet and constant lullabies that he heard must have been part of the reason why.

As an adult he has some level of control over it, but for the most part, he allows the orchestra in his head– by this point, it has grown to an entire orchestra– to play mysteriously in his mind without ceasing. It is there from the first delicate notes in the morning to the soothing chords as he falls asleep. He hears it in his dreams.

“Grantaire?”

And _oh,_ but he hears it when he is awake. Grantaire lifts his eyes slowly and finds Enjolras standing in front of him with his arms crossed. Grantaire’s head goes almost silent, save for one single trembling melody played out on a violin.

“Are you well?”

Enjolras has pretty gold hair, and Enjolras has very dark eyes, and Enjolras is too much all at once. There is no one else like him as far as Grantaire is concerned. No one else can make the ever-present noise in his head grind to a near halt. But Enjolras speaks, the instruments respond, and Grantaire smiles gently as he says, “I am fine.”

He’s left alone to his table after that. Sunlight is slanting across the wood and his pale hands at a steeper angle then when he arrived, which is his only indicator of the passage of time.

He closes his eyes and just listens.

As a student, Grantaire is terrible, much to the despair of his professors. They do not know what to make of him, for he is so often loud and contrary in their presence. They cannot know the pride that swells in Grantaire because of the trumpets and trombones he hears; he adores his classes, truly, with a desire to learn that only fuels the soundtrack in his head, but all of the inspiration in the world cannot keep him from jumping between interests as quickly as a musician’s fingers on the strings of a violin.

Among his friends Grantaire is even worse. Joly and Bossuet together conspire to make his head sing with joy and noise; sitting between the two of them is like sitting in the middle of a festival, and Grantaire is loud and boisterous enough to match it.

With Bahorel the music is louder, and harsher. Walking down the street is like marching into battle with fanfare and drums. Sparring with him is like being taken over by songs that are deep, low, and primal. It makes Grantaire bare his teeth and toss his head and snarl.

Everyone inspires a song. A pretty-faced thief on the street fills Grantaire’s head with low, deceitful clarinet. Prouvaire plays the flute, and Grantaire’s musicians match him. Grantaire’s young sister, who is sweet and unassuming, fills him with the delicate chaos of wind chimes.

These songs are soft and wonderful, but Grantaire cannot help but seek the drums that make his heart pound, and the songs that go screaming through his mind. He cannot help seeking people like Bahorel. He cannot help seeking people like _Enjolras._

Enjolras is terrible. Behind his words is the deep, uncompromising rhythm of an orchestra preparing for war. He conducts with his words and the passionate gestures he makes with his hands. 

The first time Grantaire heard him speak he was frightened, and he ran away. There was nothing in his ears but drumbeats, which were inconstant and fickle as they matched the unsteady beating of his heart.

He returned, because he wanted to, and because several of his best friends were among Enjolras’s lieutenants. The more he hears Enjolras speak, the more he wants to fall forward and be destroyed by this mad angel of a man.

There are moments around Enjolras which are so heartbreakingly beautiful that Grantaire does not know how to cope. It is the only time he wishes he truly understood how to set notes to paper, solely so that he could capture the wretched, divine music that Enjolras’s very presence wrings from him. He is a master in these moments, he knows it, because the songs from within his head are enough to bring him to the brink of tears. 

One such moment in May begins innocently enough; Courfeyrac, on his way out the door for the evening, bids Enjolras farewell by beginning to sing _La Marseillaise._ There is a roar of approval as the door closes behind Courfeyrac, and within seconds the other Amis have picked up the second verse and continued singing. It is passed around the café to each man, who sings his lines as best he can before he is shouted down or until he decides to pass it along.

Grantaire is laughing along and occasionally toasting a determined singer with his wine bottle; he has an insistent accompaniment in his head that both aides his enjoyment of the song and also makes him cringe when a singer, however valiant, misses a note or tends to sing flat. But Grantaire is happy, and flushed red with it.

Then the song is passed to Enjolras. He stands to give the words their weight, and he has his eyes closed, like he savors it.

Enjolras can sing. The Amis fall silent. Grantaire freezes in place with his hands still clutching the innocent bottle of wine and listens, because Enjolras is _singing_ and everything in Grantaire’s head is scrambling to match him. It’s a duet that only he can hear, but Enjolras’s low voice and the one-sided response of a quiet piano are striking enough to make Grantaire close his eyes. He’s desperate to keep this moment alive for as long as he can. 

It is in vain. Enjolras stops singing. Grantaire cannot move from his spot in the middle of the café; he has alcohol in his hands and a gentle loop of harmony, like an echo, between his temples.

Then there is a roar of sound, externally, as the Amis and other patrons of the café shout their approval for Enjolras’s fine voice. Enjolras himself is smiling widely. Happiness is not uncommon for him, but Grantaire does not know if he has ever seen the blond look so pleased. His face is flushed, slightly, and he has never looked lovelier to Grantaire’s eyes.

He leaves the café. He cannot bear to stay.

Much to his surprise, Enjolras follows him.

“Grantaire,” the blond calls down the street to him, “are you well?”

Grantaire stops and turns around. Enjolras is standing hesitantly beneath a streetlamp and peering into the darkness. With a sigh, Grantaire moves into the light.

“I am well, Enjolras,” he replies, when he has drawn near enough. “Do not trouble yourself on my account.”

“You left so abruptly.” Enjolras stares him down. Even concern, from his mouth, is stern. “I saw you laughing and singing as loudly as any of the others– what possessed your spirits to fall so swiftly that you felt you had to leave?”

Grantaire draws his arms around himself. Alone with Enjolras he is treated once more to a sampling of bittersweet music; it is that, perhaps, which prompts him to tell the truth. “Your singing was enough to have me quite overwhelmed,” he says simply. 

Enjolras turns red. “Do not mock me.”

“I do not, I promise.” Grantaire tries to relax, and reaches up to run his hand roughly through his hair. “There is music in your voice that inspires similar music in my head, Enjolras.”

The blond tilts his head to one side and narrows his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I have a symphony between my ears, truly.” Grantaire sighs and looks down at the ground. “Ever since I was a child I have heard the songs, though there are no musicians or instruments to be found. It is a blessing, perhaps, or a curse, but one which is well adapted to the life I lead. It accompanies the voices of others, I have found. And it plays quite nicely with yours.”

Enjolras stares at him. His dark eyes are wide. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“And yet I hear it every day, without rest,” Grantaire says with a wry smile. He feels too warm and too wrong-footed for this confession; his poor nerves are frayed and snapped. “It plays along to the very best and worst of me. I find my bravery to be bolder for the trumpets in my head; I find my sadness to be more profound for the piano that plays just the same.”

“How can you live with such noise?” Enjolras demands.

Grantaire holds out his palms. “I do not understand how anyone else can live without it.”

There is a long, dark moment where Enjolras stares at Grantaire and Grantaire attempts to stare back. Someone in his head has begun playing something extremely annoying; it takes all of Grantaire’s control to not burst out laughing at this ridiculous, ridiculous scene.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you could prove it,” Enjolras finally says. His voice is very low.

“You’re welcome to press your head against mine and listen for bells,” Grantaire says with a grin, “but as far as I’m aware my ears do not put out sound nearly as well as they take it in.”

But Enjolras seems willing to take Grantaire’s suggestion, for he steps forward before Grantaire has even finished speaking. “I doubt it would work,” he says, but there’s a gleam of _interest_ in his eyes and that is very dangerous. “However, I know more than one of our friends who would fault us for not trying. In the name of scientific curiosity.”

“Of course,” Grantaire manages, and then his words leave him all at once because Enjolras steps closer, takes his hand, and presses the side of his head against Grantaire’s. The single violin in Grantaire’s mind is quivering and terrified. Their bodies are almost held together all the way down the front; their ears are pressed together; Grantaire can feel the smooth, smooth skin of Enjolras’s jaw and it drives him to distraction.

His words, when he dares to speak, are said directly into the seam of Enjolras’s waistcoat where it rides atop his shoulder. “Do you hear anything?” _Do you hear how unsteady the musician plays, for fear that you will find him wanting?_

“Your breath,” Enjolras replies quietly. “Your pulse. Nothing more.”

Grantaire steels himself and steps back enough so that Enjolras has to release his hand. “An experiment well-conducted, nonetheless,” he says, and he doesn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes. “You’ll simply have to take my word for it, though I know the thought is distasteful to you.”

“Grantaire.”

“I think I’m going to go home,” Grantaire says, and then he nods to himself. A good plan. A solid plan. Were revolution half as simple, Grantaire would believe in it too. “I think that would be best.”

_“Grantaire.”_

“It is so strange how loudly my music responds to you,” Grantaire says as he finally looks up. His smile is a false, wavering, unsteady thing. “You speak my name and I can hardly think.”

Enjolras is staring at him with his lips parted and one hand still held out, as though he wishes to reach for Grantaire again. He is lovely and still too much. Grantaire takes another step backwards and does not let his smile fall, even despite the dissonance that reverberates in his head.

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” he says softly. Then he turns and walks down the street, alone.

They do not speak of it again as temperamental May turns to riotous June. Enjolras watches him, and Enjolras tries to listen, but Grantaire is not brave enough to ask again if any of his musical notes exist outside of his own mind.

They march onwards towards revolution. Grantaire’s orchestra keeps playing.

He dances around his apartment alone one evening, listening to summer festival songs he remembers from his youth and trying to hum along. The more he drinks, the more unsteadily the music plays, so he is caught between desire for both alcohol and music. His head is reeling.

He goes to the Musain. There will be drinks there, and there will also be men to prod the music in his head to greater heights.

How could he have planned for the drama that would unfold? How could he have arranged the sweet, teasing melody that he hears for Pontmercy, newly in love, and how could he have expected the somber funeral march that plays when Gavroche bursts through the door to announce that general Lamarque is _dead, dead, dead?_

“We must play a requiem,” he says dazedly, as the café erupts around him. Enjolras catches his eye for one moment, looking startled, before he is swept away in the fervor of preparation. So it goes.

Grantaire walks home alone, playing his requiem, ignoring the underlying tones of _fear._

The fear does not stop playing on the funeral day. It stays under Grantaire’s tongue while he drinks and declares, “I won’t go to Enjolras’s funeral.” (How could he? No music in his head could be enough.) He wishes he could sing the wretched anxiety out of himself but it stays inside him, rebounding and growing, responding to every word and every plan, until Enjolras arrives to snuff it out with harsh words and a chilling glare. “Grantaire,” he says, “you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.”

Why is this song so sad?

“You shall see.”

Grantaire, wretched and sad, falls asleep at the table. In that moment, he hears nothing at all.

He wakes up in chaos. The room is silent but the music is loud, enough to startle him, enough to wake him, enough to tell him that _Enjolras is going to die_ where he stands by the window.

“Long live the Republic! I am one of them!”

His head is singing _bravery, determination,_ and _love, love, love._ Grantaire pushes his way through the guards with his eyes fixed on Enjolras’s face. Enjolras, whose angelic face is lit up in wonder.

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire asks softly. He has never heard music like this. It isn’t echoing in the chambers of his head, no, it seems to swell and fill the room with tension and beauty and _love._ He is the wretched conductor of the most beautiful score that he has ever witnessed.

Enjolras reaches out for his hand. “I can hear you,” he whispers. His voice is so quiet that the watchful guards do not notice it; instead they aim at Enjolras’s wondering smile, and they fire.

Enjolras and Grantaire fall. The song comes all undone.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr I am [kvothes](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/x).


End file.
